Scent

Chapter I:

Nameless Woman

A/N: I wrote this story about a year ago and didn't upload them. I thought I lost this story but as I was going through my old files, I found it and decided to share it with others. Please enjoy.

It wasn't easy building a new life from the ground in a world you didn't exist. From the beginning, the fate has been against her. She had no idea how she came to be in this world, a world that should have stayed, in utmost logic, fictional. She was 24 when she found herself lost in what she soon came to realise, Gotham. Two years has passed and it was the most difficult, arduous two years she'll probably experience in her life. She had nothing other than a small backpack on her back and in the bag was her wallet, phone, key, few snacks and a water bottle. Thankfully her money was genuine enough to be accepted by the stores and cheap motels, but her cards she later found out the hard way, were 'fraudulent'.

The little money she had on her didn't even last her a full week and soon ended up on the street, begging for spare changes until a homeless charity worker found her rough sleeping in the alley next to the trash cans. She had been on the street for approximately six months or so, approximate because she didn't really keep up with the time she's been here. She didn't want to move from the small area of street she claimed, a home she could call ever since she lost her first one. They half forcibly took her from her safe corner because she was young and hadn't been on the street for a long time and more importantly, she was a young female. Being a young female in the street was a disaster waiting to happen, and she was grateful the most closest danger she got to was an assault. A fellow rough sleeper stole her bag and can of money she made on that day and he was more concerned with taking what she had than taking a step further.

"What is your name?" A kind looking woman asked in a gentle tone, "How old are you?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she burst into loud cry. Crying, it seemed, was an everyday occurrence for her. She'd cry several times a day, whether she was eating, sleeping, doing nothing thinking of her life she had in her world, she had a job, her parents, two lousy but close brother and sister. She had something. It wasn't much, but still she had something.

"Please help me." She managed out in trembling tone.

The woman, taking her plea for help at face value, rubbed a hand down her arm in gesture meant to be soothing.

"Don't worry, we're here."

"Anne?"

The hostel she was assigned in also had a mental health centre where group of clinicians would visit once a week to those in need. They suspected she had depression or some sort of mental health and had persuaded her to take part in group and one-to-one counselling session offered by the charity. She refused at first, counselling session required that both the client and therapist be truthful to each other which she absolutely cannot unless she want to be institutionalised. Not that she had anything to lose from being institutionalised; she'll have a roof over her head, warm three meals a day, healthcare and somewhere permanent at least.

"Give it a try, Anne." Emma, the woman who found and brought her in, grinned, "Everything you say would be confidential and having someone to talk to would be good for you."

She didn't know how she actually agreed to it, everything seems to happen in a blur to her these days but she was sitting with a doctor who could not have been much older than in the sofa who with glasses framing his piercing blue stares that regarded her like a new specimen brought into his lab. She wasn't much fan of Batman comic or movies or materials related to it, but she knew enough to realise who the man standing in front of her with the face of the familiar actor whose notable feature were his ocean blue eyes.

She couldn't remember the actor's name but she repeated inwardly that this man was not the actor, but a character who wore his face and a very different man.

"Hello, Miss. Reyes." He gave her a smile that was supposed to make her comfortable but it didn't reach his cold eyes and his smile was icy and impersonal, "I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane, please take a sit."

He gestured to a small armchair in front of him and Anne took a step back.

"I don't want to do this anymore." She said, feeling like a child who decided to be brave and offered herself to be vaccinated first among her peers only to falter at the sight of the needle that was more painful-looking than she had expected.

There was that smile again, she noted as he leaned back and said, "I understand you must be feeling much distress–" Oh you have no idea "–and perturbation from your recent experience but that is why I am here. Please, Miss. Reyes, sit down."

This only wanted to make her run and disappear into the street. But something about his imposing stares and overall unnerving presence seemed to force her down into the armchair albeit with great reluctance.

He flicked through a folded paper tucked in the file before glancing up at her, "Before we begin, I want you to know that anything you or I say in this room will remain confidential. The only circumstance where I must disclose the information is if I must uphold my duty to protect and care for you and others or when consulting colleague provided that I first obtain your permission to do so and I will do my best to conceal your identity and any associated parties involved. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"There isn't much information about you, is there?" He gestured to the thin paper he held up.

The only thing she had given them was her name, age and earliest known month she remembered seeing in the newspaper while she was still on the street. She had no IDs and because of that, she had nearly been denied the shelter, but because there was greater risk for her out in the street, which made her a priority, they had taken her in although what must be done after was much more difficult, if not impossible. Like trying to find a permanent accommodation, background check or open a bank account, or applying for any government benefit she could be eligible for; the list was endless. She was a dead woman, but even a dead woman had some sort of record of her life if one dug for it. She was a non-existent dead woman.

Emma assured her that this was a common problem amongst her clients, that people like her were 'pseudo-citizens' because they had little to no proof that they actually existed on paper or system.

He closed the file, "Shall we discuss more about you before I do any assessment? It's said that you cannot remember where you lived and that your IDs has been stolen, correct?"

She nodded.

"When is the earliest memory you have that you can remember?"

"…Six months ago."

"When you first started rough sleeping?"

She nodded.

"Do you remember sustaining any head injuries prior to your memory loss? Any sign that you may have sustained such wounds, such as sensitivity in the skull area? Repeated episode of vomiting? Sudden bruising or swelling around the eyes or behind ears? Loss of hearing or double visions?"

Anne paused to think, it'd be easier for him to think she had amnesia from the injury. She nodded.

"What symptoms have you experienced?"

"Vomiting, umm..double visions, my head felt sensitive for few days like I've bumped it somewhere."

He jotted down into his notepad.

"And where were you when you've noticed the gap in your memory."

"I was just on the street with my bag." She said, "I had some money but that ran out so I started to…" She felt her cheeks redden, it wasn't the most dignifying thing to say you were homeless, "..Sleep rough."

"And in your bag, what was in there?"

"My wallet and my phone."

"And you had some form of IDs in your wallet before it was stolen?"

She nodded.

"Was there a driving license?"

She nodded.

"And in that, there was your picture with name and your date of birth?"

She nodded.

"There should have been your house address there as well, do you remember?"

She shook her head after faltering for a moment.

"Why? You must have tried to find your way back home, no?"

"I-I….it was far."

"How far?"

"I couldn't afford it."

"And you can't remember the address."

"I forgot. I'm not good at remembering."

"Before your head injury or after."

"Even before." She snapped, "Is this really necessary?"

His eyes slightly narrowed, as if he felt something amiss with her story, "Yes, Miss. Reyes. As your therapist, the only way we can work with each other is if we remain truthful to each other. That means telling me everything you know, and it will be confidential as I assured you in the beginning."

"I want to go home, but I can't, OK." She felt her tears coming, her eyes notably blinking more frequently.

"Why can't you?"

"You wouldn't understand." Anne said, "I'm not even gonna say it because you'll think I'm crazy."

"Well, I'm a psychiatrist." He revealed and something in his eyes sparked, "I've seen my fair share of crazy."

She shook her head in discouragement, "Not like this. Not like mine."

"Entertain me."

Anne glued her mouth shut.

She didn't know how long the time past, glancing over her shoulder to look at the clock that hung facing him. The clock was deliberately positioned in such way that the client could forget the concept of time while they were in a 'safe zone' and therapist could covertly glance up at the time to keep track of his next appointment without making the client feel rushed or pressured. It was their job to manage the time and end the session appropriately.

"Is something holding you back?" He asked, ever so patiently, "If you could afford to go back, will you?"

"Of course I'll go back if I could afford to, but I can't."

"What is it that you cannot afford?"

"I don't even know." She shrugged, unless there was a hero with magical power that could transport her into her world.

"What is holding you back?"

Anne shrugged once again.

"What are you afraid of?" There was a malicious glean when he said the word 'afraid'.

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"It must be something."

"You won't understand." She said, "No one can."

"Allow me to understand."

"When does this session finish?"

"That is my job, Miss. Torres. I'm here to listen, not judge." He had a way with words, Anne admitted, if she weren't aware of what kind of man he was behind the cool façade, she'd probably open up her deepest fear to him.

"Well, Doctor, you can listen to my silent to the end of session." Anne tried to relax her stiff form in the armchair, it didn't help the armchair wasn't the fluffy one but a very hard, cheap ones made with low quality leather.

She tried to look everywhere but him, his eyes following her movements like a hawk scanning its prey on the ground before swooping down to hook its prey in its sharp beak. Anne wished she could control the seeping nervousness that filled the room, she knew he could feel it because every twitch she made, small smile would form on his lips. He thrived in fear; it was why he did what he did.

Every second was agonisingly slow, much slower than the six months she spent on the street.

"Well, Miss. Reyes, it seems our time is up."

Her shoulders relaxed notably as he wrapped up the session.

"I think we can schedule our next appointment next Monday, is that alright with you?"

"Thanks but I'm fine."

"The one that asks for no help is the one that needs help the most. For your sake, I suggest we keep working with each other as we figure out the best way I can help."

"I don't need your help."

"It was nice meeting you, Miss. Reyes."

She didn't say anything.